Prologue
The road just keeps going, a monotonous strip of pale light greedily seized from the total darkness by your high beams. It’s almost two in the morning.
You’ll probably have to pull over soon and catch a brief nap — because, damn it, you’re drifting off… The worst part? Half the time, you don’t even realize it’s happening. You only notice you’ve blacked out for a few seconds when your head starts to dip forward or sideways. It’s a relief, at least, that this stretch of nowhere has neither oncoming traffic nor tail lights ahead. Still, it’s not much comfort — dozing behind the wheel when you’re carrying…
You glance into the rearview mirror, checking on your passengers.
Maybe you shouldn’t have let Martin drink. Actually, you should’ve just shut that down. If he weren’t drunk, or at least not that drunk, he could have taken the wheel for a while.
His girlfriend — Charlie? Well, you don’t know her enough to trust her with your father’s minivan and a full load of passengers. Besides, she’s been drinking too. Same as Sarah. Though, honestly, you wouldn’t let Sarah drive. Sober or not.
Your cousin, Lucas, is fifteen, and he doesn’t yet have a license. Sure, you’ve taught him the basics, and you’re fairly confident he could handle the car in an emergency. But this isn’t an emergency. You’d still rather pull over and nap than hand the wheel to that kid.
And as for Nigel… He’s out of the question.
You look at him — the man dozing in the passenger seat. A sharp-edged profile tilted against a bony shoulder; long hair combed over to one side, as usual, concealing the scarred half of his dark face. You listen to him breathe — quick, uneven — slicing through the stillness of the night and the steady hum of the engine.
“Peaceful” isn’t the word. Not even close. It doesn’t fit anymore — and probably never will. He only seems peaceful, calm… asleep. Right now, he even looks almost normal.
No, of course you don’t think he’s insane — not like Lucas does. And unlike Martin, you know he’s not autistic. Nigel is as sane as a man can be, considering everything he’s been through. Yet, hand on heart, you don’t believe he’d ever pass a psychiatric evaluation to drive. Nigel himself doesn’t believe it either, so he never even hints at wanting a license. In truth, he rarely says what he wants at all. The only thing he’s expressed a real wish for — the only thing in all this time — is to go there, to Gypsy Peak. So the entire trip to the lake and the planned climb up the mountain were for him. All for Nigel. Though to make him agree, you had to compromise — to take Sarah along so he’d consent to travel with what he already considered too large a group.
The road feels endless, though the GPS insists there are only fifty miles left. An hour’s drive, maybe an hour and a half, given the poor state of this mountain road snaking through the gloomy pines and brooding cliffs.
You push on — no stops, no rest. In an hour or so, you’ll reach your father’s cabin: warmth, a real bed, comfort… You almost smile at the thought — not knowing it’s never going to happen. Unaware that, in minutes, your world will tilt. What you believe about safety, trust, and yourself will crack open. Life will shatter into before and after.
